To put it plainly, the subject in Grand Masti is sex. Amar (Ritesh Deshmukh), Prem (Aftab Shivdasani) and Meet (Vivek Oberoi) think only of sex, specifically theirs. Then they speak of it (many), cherish it, pity it or are terrified at the idea. But they do not associate more feeling or morality with it than with any other part of their bodies. Their sex is the image of the apple of their eyes. The delight of seeing a pretty girl is as devoid of ulterior motives as having a pleasant time with her.
Grand Masti is amoral and a-sentimental. This is also what the title says, we are just there to have fun and enjoy, in large widths. Okay, I will not get away with it so easily. Our three heroes are therefore married, and after a few years they begin to despair. Their charming wives are not interested in trifling. Worse, they totally control their lives and they see themselves as nice dogs on a leash.
They actually experience the immemorial distress of the hunter-gatherer whom his wife forced to work in the fields. So when the opportunity to find for a few days the freedom of their young years presents themselves, they jump on the occasion. They do not think badly, since they think only of themselves.
Arriving on campus for a meeting of former students, it does not take them much time to come across three accommodating young women. We must defend them here. It is not they who went to them, but those who harpooned them. This is the opportunity that jumped on the thieves. They would have been hard pressed to disrespect them, but they inspired them too much with the holy Indian scum of women. And then where is the trouble to accept a gift from heaven? They succumb therefore to temptation, but deliverance will take a little time to arrive.
Their problem is the director Pradeep Rawat, kneaded by moral rigidity, who is only concerned with the edification of youth. He went on a crusade against anything that might resemble a cordial entente. There they are, then, running in shorts between two slamming doors. You might object that, after all, he is right about this principal. Amar, Prem and Meet have indeed deceived their respective women without hesitation!
Well no. All this is just a big joke, stories that boys tell each other in the playground, formerly in the army or in the dressing room of a gym. Rose, Mary and Marlow (the three welcoming damsels) exist no more than their father. The situations and the jokes arising from it have no other purpose than to reassure the male spectators on their own virility and their power of seduction. We are among men, and we laugh at ourselves and our little misfortunes without making too many illusions.
Certainly, the comedy in Grand Masti is not of great finesse, nor always of great originality, but it works. It joins in this the international canons of the genre, and the raven which pecks the crotch of Prem is well worth the anthology of Mary. Similarly, Goldmember's Fook Mi and Fook Yu twins find their counterparts with Rose, Mary and Marlow (the three chained first names are pronounced in Hindi as Roz Meri Mar Lo, something like Fuck me every day.
Indra Kumar took over the three main characters of Masti to realize nine years later a totally different story in a tone that has nothing to do (nor to hear). He has preserved a universal point of departure, that of the submission of husbands to their wives, to serve us a comedy that goes well beyond what Bollywood usually offers us. It is also very different from the American sex comedies like the American Pie. The characters here are rather endearing and the humor is finally good-natured. Grand Masti happily put us in the presence of individuals so frustrated that we wonder if it will not slip seriously.
Two or three jokes, like the formidable farce of the buffalo, go a little farther. But it would be hard to describe them as bad. Visual gags and two-way erratic replicas are permanent. They are by chance most understandable even by those who do not speak Hindi. On the other hand, we must have a pretty good idea of the English vocabulary. Rest assured, a few words suffice. It is even surprising that French is not so far away. The Y chromosome must have an influence on the language.
The three choreographed songs are rather agreed and their melodies will not stay in the ear. The first, Zulmi Zulmi, which gives priority to young Western women in bikini, would almost give seasickness by dint of camera whirling. The title song Grand Masti does not shine either by its melody. On the other hand, its very representative refrain of the film does not fail to impress, even in the original version: I got a rocket in my pocket/O baby come and launch it/So we can fly away now.
The bawdy is sometimes difficult to bear, but when presented as here, with kindness and without any unhealthy afterthoughts, it can be very fun. It must be admitted, however, that Grand Masti totally excludes the female audience, who will certainly find it a crushing rudeness. But his liberating triviality is assumed. The young Indian men were not mistaken and rushed en masse to see this film that is out of the ordinary.